AND ME ON A BUCKSKIN PONY with eyes like blue electricity
and a mane like tangled fire, galloping up the hill and right
off into the high heaven of the world

His skeleton lay still. Perhaps it was thinking about this.
Anyway, after a time it groaned. But it said nothing. which
is certainly not like you he thought you are not like your-
self. but I can't say that a little quiet is not pleasant

He lay beneath an unrolled strip of tarred roofing made of
paper. All of him that is, save that part which suffered
neither insects nor temperature and which galloped unflag-
ging on the destinationless pony, up a piled silver hill of
cumulae where no hoof echoed nor left print, toward the
blue precipice never gained. This part was neither flesh nor
unflesh and he tingled a little pleasantly with its lackful
contemplation as he lay beneath the tarred paper bedcloth-
ing.

So were the mechanics of sleeping, of denning up for the
night, simplified. Each morning the entire bed rolled back
into a spool and stood erect in the corner. It was like those
glasses, reading glasses which old ladies used to wear, at-
tached to a cord that rolls onto a spindle in a neat case of
unmarked gold; a spindle, a case, attached to the deep bosom
of the mother of sleep.

He lay still, savoring this. Beneath him Rincon followed

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